Oh, Love!

Prologue

I was very excited for my trip to Batac. It was my first time to be going as far up as Ilocos Norte, it was my first time to be giving a Debate Education Seminar outside Metro Manila, and it was my first time to be spending an entire weekend with my Buffy group. (Yes, Cokelover and Comic, I have decided to call us that.)

Indeed, there was a whole lot to look forward to, and I spent the days prior to the trip in eager anticipation of it.

September 10, Friday

On my way inside the Ninoy Aquino Domestic Airport, I struggled with a hyperactive cart that, despite my murderous threats and curses, insisted on squeakily announcing my presence to all those who could hear. I checked in for the flight to Laoag in a counter that said Check-In for Bacolod. And then, free of the cart, the box (for the training manuals and CD's), and the bag, I strolled into waiting area.

The metal chairs, the marble floor, and the ceiling were all white. They were sparkling too, as it was that time of the day when the sun still accepted the "come in!" invitation of the floor-length glass windows. What a contrast it was to the Ninoy Aquino International Airport, which is little more than a functional museum piece.

I looked for Gate S07 and settled myself in a corner chair on the third row to the right of the gate. I took out the debate training manual and flipped through it so that I would be more or less prepared for the seminar the next day. (The definition of a meta extension was not there, by the way. I've heard the term used before, but I have long forgotten what it means. Literally, it means beyond the extension, but that means what? To my ADS friends, don't shoot me!)

I looked up just then and saw three mayas (small brown birds) chasing after each other, inches away from the ceiling. I thought that was pretty unusual. I shrugged and went back to the training manual. After a few minutes, I happened to look up again.

Imelda Romualdez Marcos.

And no, that is not an expletive like, say, Santa Banana! is. I saw her. She was there. Right in front of the gate. Really.

Low-pitched buzzing and a flurry of action told me that the other passengers had seen her too. I could not move. I was flying to Marcos country with Imelda Marcos. And, if she was to believed, I was a few meters away from Love personified. (The reference is taken from the film, Imelda, where Imelda said she wanted her tombstone to read "Here lies Love." This means that if you want Love to live forever, pray that Mrs. Marcos never dies.)

How overwhelming.

The first thing that entered my mind was that she was one tall lady. She stood inches above almost every man in the room. I bet if the Philippine president, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, were to stand beside her, they'd make a pretty mother and child picture: Mrs. Marcos, the mother, with a martyred and worried air about her and GMA, the toddler, with a self-satisfied smile on her face.

The second thing was that Mrs. Marcos was being ignored. No one was approaching her, much less mobbing her. Sure, people knew she was there. I, for one, was openly staring at her, and there were others who would, every five seconds or so, glance furtively her way. But that's all they did. Even the one bodyguard that she had with her was more preoccupied with his cell phone than he was with her.

I wonder how she felt about that.

The contingent of Mrs. Marcos, which included the aforementioned bodyguard and four ladies, settled in the tables of Saint Cinnamon. She was seated about 45 degrees and four meters from where I was. I could thus observe her more carefully. She had on orange slacks, orange shoes with inch-high heels, and a pink floral shirt made of that flowing material that you can drape on tables to make them look pretty. (Yes, I know nothing about clothes.) Her face was about two shades whiter than her arms, which were rather fair, except for the area near her jawbone, which was colored reddish-brown. Correct me if I am wrong, but I think that the make-up there is meant to make the face smaller.

She was seated there for about five minutes when a young mestiza (woman with Spanish/Caucasian features) emerged from the bathroom and started speaking with her. I thus got to observe Mrs. Marcos conversing. What I noticed was that she was very expressive: her face changed often, and, when it was her turn to speak, she tended to gesture with her hands. When she was listening, she would perch her left arm on the chair back, nodding her head every so often.

While Mrs. Marcos and the mestiza were conversing, I saw something else of interest to me. A janitor, who had been mopping the floor, had caught sight of Imelda and, upon doing so, had perched his hands on the handle of his mop, rested his head on his hands, and gazed at her reverently, much like a child on the street would stare at the window of Toy Kingdom. He was parked there for about a minute when this lady on the way to the bathroom happened to look at Mrs. Marcos. She never stopped looking. She was walking forward but facing backward, almost as if she were daring the proverbial post to appear right in front of her. When she was finally able to pull her gaze away, the lady encountered the knowing look of the janitor. They smiled candidly at each other. I just had to laugh to myself.

"Yihee!" I wanted to call out. "Two strangers brought together by Love!"

And then it was time to board. As usual, everyone rushed to the gate so that they'd be first on the plane. As to why that is somehow appealing, I have no idea. I stayed where I was, still observing Mrs. Marcos. At that point, the line in front of the gate had formed all the way to the tables at Saint Cinnamon, where she was.

That was when she was asked to pose for her first picture. She was asked to smile for about four more, and I do have to admit that she was very gracious about it. But perhaps her love for the camera, and not altruism, can be credited for that.

The photo-taking incident reminded me of the question-answer portions in open forums. Half of the time allotted for it is wasted because no one wants to ask the first question. But once the first question is asked, all the questions in the world wait to be asked. But, by that time, the speaker has to wrap the session up. As it happens in those cases, so too did it happen here.

I strolled into the carpeted tube that connects the airport to the airplane, finding Mrs. Marcos less than a meter away from me. Separating both of us was the Stateside and more horizontally challenged version of Vandolph and his Filipino-American companion.

Vandolph, as he will be known in this post, was the grown-up version of the noisiest brat in Head A. Whle we were waiting for our turn to board the plane, he cracked a lame joke about the plane running out of seats for him. Something like that anyway. It was the kind of joke that should never have been made and, when made, should have been abandoned as quickly as possible. But Vandolph, the simian, did not get the hint. Instead, he spent his time in the tube booming out lame follow-ups to his already dead joke.

As the tube was reverberating with his voice, I was torn between rage and pity: I was enraged that he would, with such audacity, threaten the personal well-being of at least a dozen other people, and I pitied him because, at the rate that he was projecting his voice, his pathetic sense of humor would be known by even those in Timbuktu. Poor me. Poor Vandolph.

Thankfully, we got out of the tube, and I got settled in Seat 9C. While I was sitting down on the narrow chair, I could not help but hope that Vandolph had been assigned a seat outside the plane. But, as he never bothered me again, today is the first time since then that I have spared a thought on him.

Then Mrs. Marcos passed my row. Sideways at that, as the plane had rows like a bus. She was so near me that I could have stabbed her with my pen, except that I didn't have time to tie a ribbon around it. (This is, once again, a reference to the film. When stabbed by an unknown man while giving a presentation, she lamented afterwards that the weapon, a knife, was too plain and should have been dignified with a ribbon.)

I heard her say that she was in Row 14. Row 14? She didn't even get the best seats in the plane. Why was she flying commercial anyway? Oh, right. Maybe President GMA had borrowed her personal jet on that state visit to Brunei.

I didn't have much time to think of anything else. Before I knew it, the plane was taking off.
I settled into my seat and smiled.

I was soaring to Marcos country, with no less than Imelda Marcos right behind me.

* * *

More accounts coming! Soon, I hope. But I'm being very careful not to promise anything.

* * *

To one of the two best sisters in the whole wide world: Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday to you-ooo!! Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday to you-ooo!!

My sister is 18 already! But that's okay. She looks like me, so looking old is not a problem.